Anonymous Sources by Mary Louise Kelly Read Free Book Online

forbidden to actually study much. This is because of privilege number two: they are required to throw as many parties as possible. Seriously. The scholarship, I read with interest, comes with a five-figure entertaining budget. The idea is to serve as a kind of resident Harvard ambassador to the university. Of course, this is Cambridge, so the partying probably leans more toward black-tie banquets and sherry tastings than all-night kegfests. Still, not bad work if you can get it.
    This was how Thom Carlyle had spent the past year. He would also have enjoyed the third perk: the Harvard room. Make that rooms. Twobedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a huge sitting room in the most imposing old dorm in the college, reserved each year for the new Harvard Scholar. Thom had presumably been living there until three days ago.
    If I could find the Harvard room, I might find his bedder. And then I might be onto something.
    BY MIDMORNING, I WAS STANDING outside the front gate of Emmanuel College. I brushed my hair behind my ears and checked my earrings. I hadn’t wanted to take the time to change, so I was still wearing what I’d worn on the plane: cotton summer dress, Chanel ballet flats, a cream cashmere cardigan. It wasn’t the most businesslike attire, but then that wasn’t the point. Today my task was getting women to talk to me. Thom’s bedder. His girlfriend. I needed to appear nonthreatening, nice.
    From the street, Emmanuel looked grubby. Passing cars had blackened the stone façade. Soot stained the windowpanes. Emmanuel wasn’t as imposing as some of Cambridge University’s thirty other colleges. Today it didn’t look particularly welcoming either. The heavy iron front gate was locked tight and a sign outside read COLLEGE CLOSED TO VISITORS . I ignored this. The sign was meant for tourists; I considered myself exempt.
    I stepped through a narrow side door and into the porters’ lodge. From behind a counter, two porters looked up. It’s the same system in every college: A handful of usually plump, usually gruff old men are charged with guarding the college gates. They also deliver the mail, prowl the grounds, and chase tourists and drunken students from the pristine lawns.
    â€œHi, just dropping this in the pigeonholes,” I said. I waved a piece of paper from my bag and kept moving. Did students still have mail pigeonholes? Or did everyone just text each other these days?
    â€œHallo there. Can we help you, miss?” The porter acted as though he hadn’t heard me.
    â€œOh, I’m fine. Just dropping this.” I waved the piece of paper again.
    â€œAh, an American, is it? Visiting today?”
    I did not have time to get into a lengthy conversation. And I suspected that the truth—that I was a reporter trying to sneak into the private quarters of a recently deceased student—would not go down so well.
    Instead I pretended to pout. “Why, don’t you remember me? Alexandra James, from a few years ago? I was in Corpus Christi. But I used to eat lunch here after lectures. I’m just back for a visit. I need to say hello to some people.”
    Then I batted my lashes at him. I am constantly amazed that men actually fall for this. But they do. The porter looked entranced.
    â€œWell, then. Welcome back, love. Know where you’re going?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” I smiled prettily and turned through the far door, into Front Court.
    FRONT COURT WAS LOVELY, I remembered now. A perfect square. Cloisters framed an ancient clock rising above a Sir Christopher Wren chapel. The pale stone here glowed, unsullied by the cars crawling past outside.
    I didn’t have any idea where I was going, but I didn’t want to let on in case the porters were watching. So I strode across the cobbles, under archways, until the court opened into a wide meadow. Here were the ducks I remembered. The pond. I looked around, then walked up to a girl sprawled on the